by Lucy Score
“You’ve got a big mouth,” John told Phoebe.
She grinned guiltily. “Good news travels fast in Blue Moon.” Which meant that, by tomorrow, most of the town would know that John was sleeping with his new farm hand. She hoped Mrs. Nordemann wouldn’t take offense to pre-marital sex. Not that she and John were going to be marital.
John’s bland tone snapped her out of her reverie. “Then I guess the entire town already knows Cardona here fell on his ass just looking at our sheriff friend.”
“Oooooh!” Elvira and Phoebe crooned as Hazel sent Michael a long, questioning look. The tips of his ears turned pink again, something John didn’t hesitate to point out to Hazel.
They ate and joked as the sky turned inky black and the stars popped out between the leaves of the trees. Hazel filled them in on some of her more amusing small town calls for aide. Elvira, her leg looped over the arm of her chair, filled them in on stories and scandals from Blue Moon’s previous generation, and Phoebe answered questions about Penn State, sharing her impressive—and necessary—knowledge of the school’s football program.
Elvira started a fire and turned on the radio in her kitchen, the blues—a neutral choice for Blue Moon, which was in a war between the ’60s and ’80s—poured through the window into the backyard. They lit citronella candles and incense sticks to chase away the mosquitos and broke into Elvira’s stash of homemade ice cream.
John looped an arm over Phoebe’s shoulders as Michael put everyone in stitches with a story about an English class substitute and Linus Fitzsimmons’ special brownie recipe.
And right then, every damn thing in Phoebe’s life was perfect.
--------
When Elvira got up to open another bottle of wine, she asked Phoebe and Hazel to come help her.
“Ooooh, girl talk,” Michael called after them as they trooped inside.
Elvira held up two bottles. “Cab or blanc?”
Hazel and Phoebe pondered. “Blanc,” they agreed.
Phoebe grabbed a bag of pretzels.
“Are you still hungry?” Hazel groaned stroking her flat stomach. “I ate my entire sub. All twelve inches of it.”
“Twelve? Really, I wouldn’t have expected Michael to have that kind of weaponry,” Elvira teased.
Hazel grabbed a handful of pretzels from the bag and tossed them in Elvira’s direction. “Hilarious.”
“Soooo, what is going on with you and Michael?” Phoebe asked, leaning over the foot of countertop on the peninsula. Elvira joined her and stared expectantly.
“Yeah, Haze. What’s going on with you and Fire Chief Hot Pants?”
“For a woman who doesn’t want a relationship, you sure have a lot of interest in others’,” Hazel said, pouring the sauvignon blanc.
“Just because I’m not getting married in this lifetime doesn’t mean I don’t do relationships. I do just fine in that department, thank you very much. Also, A HA! You said ‘relationship’ in relation to Michael.”
Phoebe pointed at Elvira. “I believe the esteemed Ms. Eustace is correct.”
Hazel rolled her blue eyes ceilingward. “Are you sure you weren’t born to some hippies here in town and adopted? I feel like I’m trapped in a room with Nordemann right now.”
“I hate to point it out, but you’re avoiding the question,” Phoebe grinned. “There’s something there, right?”
“Ugh, fine. I may have had the smallest crush on him in high school, but the way he asked me to prom? All big man on campus?” Hazel snorted. “I want a regular guy, not Mr. I’m God’s Gift to Women.”
“He is a flirt,” Elvira agreed.
“But he clearly has a thing for you,” Phoebe argued.
“See? What did I tell you? Nordemann,” Hazel said, slipping her hand in the pretzel bag.
“I’m serious. The man just fell on his ass just because he caught a glimpse of you,” Phoebe reminded her.
“Hmm.”
“Yeah, but how is Hazel supposed to ignore his long history of womanizing?”
Phoebe waved away Elvira’s concern. “Please, long, ancient history.”
“He asked you out, didn’t he?” Elvira reminded Phoebe.
“To annoy John. Besides, the first time I saw him look at Hazel at the town meeting, I knew there were sparks aplenty.”
“So, one night of sex turns you into a relationship expert?” Hazel questioned.
“Correction, one night of phenomenally mind-blowing sex. And, Exhibit B,” she waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m not blind. Anyone can see Michael has a very heavy thing for you.”
“Having a thing for and behaving as a partner in a monogamous relationship are two very different things,” Elvira pointed out, holding up her empty glass.
Hazel poured obligingly. “And do I even want to be the thousandth notch in his bed post?” Hazel argued.
“Hazel, if anyone can lay down the law with Cardona, it’s you,” Phoebe predicted.
Hazel poured. “I see what you’re doing. Good cop, bad cop. It doesn’t work on an actual cop.”
Phoebe grinned. “Just giving you some food for thought.”
“You sure you aren’t moving here permanently?” Hazel asked Phoebe. “You’d fit right in with the rest of these gossip mongers and meddlers.”
“Phoebe’s got some family stuff to take care of after this summer,” Elvira announced vaguely.
Phoebe shot her a look.
“Uh-uh.” Hazel shook her finger in Phoebe’s face. “I shared, now you. Or I’ll dig my service weapon out of my purse and interrogate you properly.”
Elvira snickered. “When’s the last time you had to interrogate anyone?”
“When two of those punk-ass Karlinski kids took Carson’s tractor for a joy ride through downtown before parking it in the creek. And back to Phoebe.” Hazel pointed pistol fingers in her direction.
“Stupid town and stupid people wanting to know everything,” Phoebe muttered.
“Yeah, not so fun now is it, smarty pants?” Hazel’s grin was sharp. “Spill it, sister.”
So Phoebe did over another glass of wine and more pretzels.
“Well, that sucks. What about you and Farmer Gorgeous out there?” Hazel nodded toward the backyard.
“We’re just temporary. Monogamous but temporary,” she explained.
“You look pretty sad when you say that,” Elvira prodded, her chin in her hand.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know. I think maybe there’s something in the water in this town. I’m actually not looking forward to leaving.”
She didn’t miss the long look that passed between Elvira and Hazel.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nothing, geez. Suspicious much?” Hazel covered.
“You’re still going to be in town for the Sit-In, right?” Elvira asked, glancing at the kitten calendar on the front of her refrigerator.
“The Sit-In?”
Hazel and Elvira shared another look. “Oh, you can’t miss the Sit-In,” Hazel grinned.
“What are you protesting?”
“Nothing,” Elvira laughed. “It’s the anniversary of this one time that the town protested something—”
“The library closing,” Hazel supplied.
“Right, right. Anyway, our sleepy little hippie town hit the news that night for the protest staged at the library. People showed up, hats were passed, and the library stayed open.”
“As the years went on, there weren’t as many things to protest here. So it’s more of a carnival,” Elvira explained. “With handcuffs.”
“Handcuffs?” Phoebe blinked.
“It’s part of the tradition. And we still raise money, though,” Hazel continued. “A different cause every year.”
“What’s this year’s cause,” Phoebe asked. God, what a sweet, kooky little town. It was going to tear a piece of her heart out to leave this ridiculous place.
“As far as I
know,” Hazel said breezily, “Mayor Nordemann hasn’t announced it yet. We’re not exactly good at planning around here.”
Chapter Twenty
Phoebe and John let nature take its course in the fields and the bedroom. Long, sweaty days of satisfying work were followed by cool showers and hot nights. The rough edges of Phoebe’s thesis were smoothed out with careful edits as the calluses on her palms hardened from the labor. John took her wading in the creek, picnicking in the fields, and showed her the spot he’d chosen for a pond someday.
She could see it. She could tell John was imagining a family cooling off on hot summer nights in the water. His family. He wanted it, and he’d have it someday soon, she guessed. At least once she was out of his way.
John Pierce was a man who knew what he wanted, and she admired that about him. It made her question some of her own goals. What did she really want beyond settling her parents’ debt? She’d pursued this major because she’d loved those years on her grandparents’ farm. Would settling into the research community really fulfill her?
She’d had an unsettling moment the other night when she and John enjoyed fresh squeezed lemonade on the front porch and debated where he should hang a porch swing. For just a second, she wished that she’d still be here when he hung the swing.
She’d shaken it off and distracted herself by distracting John with an entertaining strip dance on the porch. They’d barely made it inside. He was going to have to burn down the house if he didn’t want a wife facing down memories of Phoebe here.
She was everywhere here. Phoebe cooked while John cleaned up, they wrote together—John still refusing to share with her anything he’d written—and every night they made love until they fell asleep entwined. One day, they went to town for a “few things” and returned with utensils, a casserole dish, new towels, and a second set of sheets. Not that they needed them. Phoebe slept in his bed every night, the sheets usually landing in a tangle on the floor. When John shored up the sagging porch roof, Phoebe weeded and mulched the overgrown flower beds at the front of the house, taking the house from dilapidated to charming.
They made a good team, Phoebe decided.
They’d gone from argumentative foes to lovers in sync, and it felt… good.
Phoebe swiped an arm over her brow, transferring sweat to sweat. The humidity clung to the pasture like a wet wool blanket. Heavy and oppressive. The air felt like it was too thick to breathe. But that didn’t stop John from working at full speed.
They’d built a shelter in the pasture. A place for Melanie to enjoy the shade or stay out of the rain.
At the distant rumble of thunder, Phoebe dropped the paintbrush in the tray and sat on her haunches admiring the view. John, stripped to the waist, hefted a piece of lumber and tossed it into the back of the pick-up. Sweat slicked his bronze skin, trickling over ridges of muscle and disappearing into the loose waistband of his jeans. The denim rode indecently low on his hips.
Dark, swollen clouds roiled behind him. He looked like a sexy, brooding hero of one of those supermarket paperbacks. If he were on the cover of a book, Phoebe would be compelled to buy it.
As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his gaze to her. He stripped off his work gloves and tossed them in the bed of the truck. “You’re quiet,” he said, taking the cup of water she offered him from the thermos.
“Just enjoying the scenery,” she grinned.
His heated gaze was punctuated by the next roll of thunder. With that hint of danger, Phoebe felt her heart stutter.
She wasn’t sure if it was the heat from the hazy sun overhead or the look in John’s eyes that made her feel like she was baking in a convection oven. The wind, hot and thick, picked up, and the tips of grass in the pasture swirled in wild patterns.
“Storm’s coming,” John said, eyeing the growing clouds.
She could smell it, that metallic hint of rain on the wind. In the distance, lightning flashed in the clouds, and Phoebe felt the hair on her arms stand up. “Maybe we should call it a day?”
“Probably a good idea,” he agreed. His tone was mild, but she could see that heat in his eyes and knew what he was thinking. They’d spent so little time together, but opening up to the kind of intimacy they shared in bed made her feel like she knew the man down to his bones. And the way he was looking at her now had Phoebe thinking of things besides cool showers and fresh iced-tea.
Lightning forked across the sky, chased by a long rumble of thunder that went on forever.
John gave her a light shove toward the truck. “Get in,” he ordered.
He loaded up the paint supplies and tools into the bed and climbed in behind the wheel just as the first, fat drops fell from the sky. Within seconds the drops turned to an honest to goodness downpour so heavy Phoebe hoped it wouldn’t crack the windshield.
John drove by feel, sticking to the tire ruts in the trail that had taken them out of sight of civilization. The storm was upon them, turning the trail into a river of mud, at least from what little Phoebe could see between paltry swipes of the windshield wipers. But she wasn’t worried. There wasn’t a person alive who knew this land better than John.
She caught the flash of red from the barn ahead and knew that there, through the distorted glass, was the dry sanctuary of home.
John pulled into the three-sided shelter that housed the truck and tractor on the far side of the house.
“Gonna have to make a run for it. You ready?”
“A little rain doesn’t scare me,” Phoebe scoffed.
“Let’s see those long legs in action,” John winked.
Their mad dash was more slip and slide than sprint. The dirt and gravel drive was a muddy lake. She felt it, warm and wet, coating her calves as she ran.
They left a watery, mud-laden trail up the front steps. Phoebe pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and levered off her boots next to the door. Her grimy white t-shirt was plastered to her, and she felt John watching her. It was an adrenaline rush, that untamed lust in those gray eyes gone molten.
The rain impacted the porch roof, streaming over the gutters in an endless torrent.
Teasing them both, Phoebe straightened, sliding her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans. She undid her fly with uncharacteristic leisure and slowly wriggled out of the wet denim.
John, muscled jaw tight now, toed off his work books, kicking them aside.
She reached for the hem of her t-shirt but got no further. He was on her, big hands lifting her up, settling her on his hips, wrapping her legs around him.
He tasted of salt and smelled like storm, a heady combination that aroused her. He was all man. Every inch of ripped muscle, every callus, every move of his powerful body. She couldn’t imagine a more potent aphrodisiac than the man she was wrapped around.
In the next weak breath, they were through the door and stumbling up the stairs as lightning lit the prematurely darkened house from outside.
John kicked the bedroom door open with gusto and dropped them both on the bed, the mattress springs protesting. Flailing wildly, he yanked her shirt over her head with one hand and snapped on the bedside lamp with the other.
She’d had him in nearly every way possible, Phoebe thought, tugging off his shirt and running her hungry hands down his back. Slow and sweet in the early dawn, languidly, teasingly in the late afternoons or after midnight. He took his time every time with her. But this desperation, this raw intensity was new and beautiful.
Her body yearned for his. She hitched her legs higher up his hips, and he pressed himself against her. Damp, rigid denim grinded against the cotton of her briefs. He used one hand to unzip his fly, and Phoebe eagerly shoved at his jeans with her heels.
She needed him closer. He kissed her feverishly, and for a moment she forgot everything she’d ever known. Everything she’d ever dreamed or wanted or accomplished. All that mattered was right here, right now. He made her feel like this fragile thing ready to be worshipped by mouth and hand
s. It made her dizzy.
Another bolt of lightning lit the sky through the windows, and the lamp went out with a snap. The thunder reverberated in her bones. The storm had robbed the house of power but not them. They still had all they needed.
Phoebe used her legs to kick and roll, pinning John to his back. The sheet fell to the floor. The rain pounded against the panes of glass. And John’s sterling eyes held her under an unspoken spell. Together, they worked his boxers off and then her underwear, and as his big, hard hands roamed her body, Phoebe made a grab for the box of condoms that had taken up residence on the nightstand.
“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.
“I want to give you what you want.”
His whispered confession, rasped between rolls of thunder gave her goose bumps on every inch of her skin.
“I want you to take.” He always gave and gave and gave until she was loose and nearly comatose. And, for once, she wanted to watch him take just for himself. To be greedy with her body. She wanted to see him selfish and craving, using her body to take him over that jagged edge of desire.
She slid her hand down across taut abs, stroking down one thigh and up the other. Her fingertips burned from the heat pumping off him.
Unable to wait any longer, Phoebe gripped his thick shaft and leaned forward to taste him. She knew how to get him to the point where he was delirious with the need to take, to consume.
“Phoebe,” he hissed out her name.
“It’s okay,” she promised and took him into her mouth. She could tell by the rigid muscle under her hands that John was using every ounce of strength to stay perfectly still for her. But she would break him down.
Slicking down over him again and again, Phoebe followed her mouth with the grip of her hand. She’d let him pleasure her so often these past few weeks, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been learning his body, his cues.
He groaned as if tormented by her pleasure, and she lapped at him with the flat of her tongue drawing a strangled “fuck” from his lips.
When he could take her torture no more, John clamped a hand over her wrist. “You need to stop. Now.”